My heart is a book with a worn bind
Each crease and line signify
Every time you open it roughly and wide.
So careless and cruel,
Claiming you have better understanding
Than you actually do,
Of the words not written by you.
I am on the page you've bookmarked,
The page, tattered and waterstained,
When confronted, you apologize
With a smile, for knocking over the glass
But what else can I say except "It's okay"?
The words bleed and melt, the ink seeps,
Pages and pages of darkness
A mark I cannot unfeel, cannot forget.
So I'm sitting here, running my finger
Over the wrinkled lines and blurred words,
I close my eyes and feel the tears well
My grip on the page tightens
The rage in my blood urges me on
The paper, in my hand, conforms,
But I don't know if I have the heart
To rip it out.
